


Penance

by moonflow



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Gen, PTSD implied, Some mentions of gore, but. you know., trudy just really hates kimblee dude, well its more sad than bittersweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:13:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25478968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonflow/pseuds/moonflow
Summary: The Stained Glass Alchemist isn't one to back down when faced with a challenge. It seems the Crimson Lotus is determined to break that.
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

Alchemists are few, and state alchemists are even fewer. Specialized soldiers brought in for the sake of nothing but wanton destruction - a way to speed up the war efforts and get things moving.

I hated Ishval.

To clarify, I did not hate the country nor its people. When I was a girl, I often wondered what it would be like to travel there and learn of the people and their culture. Never would I have thought that my passion would be used to destroy both.

No, I did not hate Ishval itself. I hated the sand in the back of my eyes and the blood on my hands that would never wash off. I hated the cries of children mingled with explosions and the thudding roars of rock clashing against rock - or the stomach-churning squelches of human lives being pressed against the ground or wall until they were nothing but a splatter.

I tried to tell myself that the war wouldn't last forever, and that I would be able to go home and be alright again in no time. But even if the war had ended a week after my being stationed there, I would not have been alright. I would not be able to go home with a clear conscience.

My first scouting mission had been alongside a rather large and important man who went by the name of Basque Grand. At the time, I'd found it odd that such a well regarded and high ranking state alchemist accompanied me. In truth, I think he just wanted to feel better about himself. 

His tone had changed once he saw a glass stalagmite pierced through the eye of an Ishvalan soldier. I was as still as the corpse that day. Though I didn't speak much, he didn't seem to mind. The walk back to camp was deathly silent. I suppose my eyes (like endless pools, apparently) weren't as brilliant and distracting as he'd insinuated them to be.

I didn't sleep that night.

Or the next, or the next after that. Sleep came in periodic, frantic shifts. Two hours here, one there, and on a good night, sometimes I got four. Occasionally I would be so exhausted that I would pass out as soon as I reached the cot of my tent. Hughes used to joke that not even a bomb going off could wake me up when I got like that.

I never had the heart to tell him that I often wished one would.

The general at camp would call me in at least once a week. I scarcely ever paid attention after the first encounter, for he had this horrible habit of prattling on and on until his words all blended into white noise.

That was, until he would inevitably ask if I understood. Of course, a firm nod was his reply. He never questioned it.

The more time passed, the more jaded I became. Not indifferent or uncaring, mind you. I was just trying to protect myself. Thinking can and will drive you mad if you let it.

I wouldn't allow it.

It was around the halfway point of my being stationed in the central Ishval camp. While I waited for my appointed scouting partner to arrive, I people watched. Roy and Hughes were conversing by the center fountain. Armstrong had three young and apprehensive looking soldiers cornered, presumably telling them an incredible tale passed down through the Armstrong family for generations.

The thought made a smile tug briefly at the corner of my lips.

It had taken a few seconds to register that someone was walking towards me after a point, and my gaze shifted.

I had seen the man around before, if only because he absolutely refused to adhere to the dress code. His jacket was always worn around his waist rather than up and over his arms, and his hair was long, kept back in an incredibly tight ponytail. At the time, I had mentally noted that it was something we had in common.

It was the _only_ thing we had in common.

People have told me in the past that I am a woman of few words. Though they're right, it's not for the reasons they assume. It's not that I don't have anything to say, but rather that I'm waiting for the right moment to speak up. That said, it gives me an awful lot of time to spend observing and listening. It's a skill of sorts, or at least I like to think it is.

I knew from the moment I laid eyes on the man that he was trouble.

Known as the Crimson Lotus Alchemist (or simply Crimson by his peers, because the former was more than a bit of a mouthful), he had a bit of a reputation amongst his fellow soldiers. While I had not interacted with him previously, I had heard stories. How he came back from the battlefield with what could only be called a shit-eating grin on his face and blood on his shoes. How he would talk someone’s ear off and leave them sitting at their table, food having since grown cold and their reality having since been shattered. 

For a time, I thought that the latter was simply an exaggeration.

I wanted to give Crimson the benefit of the doubt. Everyone liked a bit of gossip from time to time, and reducing a soldier to the boogeyman of Ishval was humorous at best and irritating at worst. Yet even I couldn’t ignore the pit in my abdomen that grew as the man strode closer to me.

He was talking before I could even think of what to say in greeting. “Ah, the fabled Stained Glass Alchemist,” he remarked once he was in relatively close earshot. “Your reputation precedes you. Ayers, am I correct?”

“That you are,” I had replied with a short, crisp nod. I stuck my hand out, the other resting firmly behind my back. “Your name has unfortunately escaped me, Crimson. If you’d entertain my poor memory, I would appreciate it.”

Crimson’s hand had extended from the pocket it had previously been resting in to take my own. His fingers were bony and calloused, grip firm and a little too tight for my personal tastes. “Major Solf J. Kimblee, but please, just call me Kimblee.”

Our hands parted, and I took note that his palm was decorated in intricate navy blue ink. I placed my own behind my back once more. “We’ll be exploring the northeast sector this afternoon; I’m sure you’ve been informed.”

“Oh, that I have been,” the man replied with a lackadaisical smile. “So there’s no need to waste much more time then, hm?” With a loose gesture of his hand, he signalled for me to follow before turning to walk away.

Following along behind him like a stray puppy was not in my plans, however. Brisk and stiff, I walked up beside him with my hands firmly clasped behind my back. The chitchat of soldiers grew quieter until we were on the outskirts of camp, and finally, out in the desert. Our tents were but a blip on the horizon if either of us bothered to look over our shoulders (which we didn’t). 

The sun felt twice as hot in Ishval as it had back in the city. The vast desert sands held in the warmth and embraced it like an old friend, distributing that heat for miles and miles. I’d always found our soldier dress code nearly as cruel as the actions we were meant to carry out.

Nearly.

Kimblee, however, seemed unconcerned for the most part. Our presentations were like polar opposites; I myself was stiff, alert, and crisp. The man beside me was downright relaxed, his hands resting in his pockets with his stance toeing the line between casual and improper. 

“So why is it that you joined the military, Ayers?” he asked out of the blue. “Everyone has a reason, and I’m always open to learn more about my fellow soldiers.”

My lips pursed - not in thought, but in mild frustration. “At this point, Crimson, I don’t think our reasons matter anymore.”

I watched his head list upwards out of the corner of my eye. I could practically hear his brows rise with newfound intrigue. Though, after a few beats of silence, he looked ahead once more. “I suppose. You could just call me a curious man. I’m not the best at small talk, see; it’s the only conversation starter I can think of.”

“It’s hard to entertain the notion of small talk in the middle of a battlefield,” I deadpanned. I had long since learned that I didn’t owe anyone anything - let alone random soldiers. We were all in the same boat. We were all murderers. If people wanted to talk about themselves and their lives they left at home that they were excited to go back to, I would never fault them for that. But in my eyes, we were all equal in that sense. Bonds and respect weren’t gained by sob stories or gushing about a wife someone was waiting for home. They were earned.

And Solf J. Kimblee had not earned my respect yet. 

But it seemed he believed he would be damned if he didn’t. 

“There’s not much else to do,” he countered. “Unless you’d rather pick a different topic of conversation? I’m sure I can think of a few - unless you’d like me to start?”

“Crimson, you and I are opposites when it comes to talking,” I quipped. My hands had since moved around to reach into my uniform for my alchemical gloves. Taking them out, I tugged one onto my hand. “I don’t speak much. You, on the other hand, are a conversationalist. Therefore, if you don’t mind the sound of your own voice for however long it is that we’re stuck out here...” 

My fingers briefly flexed, the transmutation circle upon my covered palm bright against the sun’s rays that shone down on it. At last, I turned my head to face him. “Then please, be my guest.”

The cheshire grin that crept onto Kimblee’s face admittedly surprised me. For reasons I obviously didn’t understand, what I had said apparently amused him. Thankfully, he turned his head to look ahead of him once more, though the chuckle that rumbled in the back of his throat didn’t quell my confusion any. “Alright, then. But don’t expect me to let you off the hook that easily.”

One of his inked hands raised to rest a finger beneath his chin in thought. I prepared myself to be subjected to a dramatized retelling of his childhood and his alchemical history that eventually led up to him joining the military for some courageous reason or another. But that is not what I got.

“You grew up in a big family; probably three or more siblings,” he mused. “They were either all older, or they were all boys. Or both; take your pick.” Before I could even begin to form a response, he continued to speak. “You probably joined the military because you had nowhere else to go - and because you needed some sense of stability in your life. After all, what’s more stable than a uniform, a paycheck, and guaranteed acknowledgement? Well, the cries of Ishvalans probably weren’t the attention that you wanted, but beggars can’t be choosers. So? How accurate am I?”

How the devil this man, nearly a stranger, managed to deduce so much from me from seemingly nothing rattled me. In fact, it shook me. However, I refused to let it show externally. That had been a fatal flaw of mine for too long, and I refused to fall back into it again.

“I’m not going to bother acknowledging the question,” I finally replied, pulling my other glove on and careful not to make my movements too snappy. “An answer wouldn’t satisfy you either way. I really don’t see why you think attempts at psychoanalyzation would make a good first impression, but I suppose everyone thinks differently about those things.”

I made the mistake of glancing in his direction. There was that smile again, curling upward towards his ears and causing the corners of his eyes to crinkle with amusement. It only served to make the pit in my stomach swell. All I had done was confirm his suspicions, and he was oh so proud of himself for it. He was like a boy who stole from the cookie jar and got away with it, unable to contain his mischievous glee.

But there was something darker than mischief behind his eyes.

The major gave a shrug, finally, and sighed. “I suppose you have a point. Our pasts don’t define who we are as soldiers on the battlefield. Only our actions in the present do, and neither your hands nor mine are exactly clean.”

I swallowed down the urge to sigh myself. “Yes, I agree. In this war, we only know each other in the moment. What we left behind ultimately doesn’t matter when there’s a chance it could be erased at any given moment with you along with it.”

“How pragmatic,” Kimblee replied.

The silence that followed was short, but I was grateful for it regardless. Truth be told, I didn’t actually mind conversations on the battlefield with the right people. Armstrong was one of the few people at camp to put a smile on my face. Hughes refused to cease gushing about his wife back at home. Even Mustang was good company, even if he and I were similar in many ways. We both did what we could to work through the horrors of war. I’m sure that he averts his gaze even now when he looks in the mirror, refusing to acknowledge that his eyes are those of a murderer’s.

Kimblee seemed like the type of man to admire his reflection and every harsh memory that came with it. Someone who would stare into the face of a man who killed dozens and commend himself for his patriotism.

It made me sick.

When Kimblee wasn’t looking, I briskly shook my hands at my sides, desperate to get the nervous energy out of my body in some way. Surely I was overthinking things, but something about the man walking beside me told me that it was highly possible that I wasn’t at all.

Buildings arose on the horizon as we walked. They were cracked and crumbling, and only about three or four still stood upright. It must have been an outpost of sorts, and by proxy was likely a present hideout for Ishvalans. Their weather-beaten walls were the same color as the sand they rested upon, windows nothing more than square holes in the stone.

A shot rang out. I flinched.

A grunt of pain was heard beside me.

Quickly, I crouched to the ground, left hand pressed against the sand, and focused. The grains rose up and up until they solidified into a wall separating the two of us from whoever lay in wait at the outpost. My hair whipped around my face as I turned my head to look at Kimblee.

His bony form was hunched, a hand over the opposite shoulder. Red seeped between his fingers. A sharp inhale came from behind his teeth, though the lips encasing them curled upwards in an almost mad smile.

Head turning to face me, he said simply, “I’m fine. It barely gr-grazed me.” Though he inhaled to speak once more, he was interrupted by another gunshot. This one rang differently through the air, the impact hard against the wall before us. It was close.

As my hand reached downward, fingers curling against the sand and causing sparks of blue and white to crackle from my fingers, I found myself murmuring a prayer. It wasn’t to any god specifically, but the words were involuntary as they left my mouth.

It was near impossible to gauge where the assailant could be at the other side of the barricade, and so I waited. I could feel Kimblee’s eyes boring on me from behind, likely wondering what the hell I was doing, but then a third shot was heard. The bright sparks beneath my hands grew much more brilliant as I brought it upward, a column of sand moving along with it. It was turning black, then orange, then bubbling ferociously as the heat stung at my cheeks. I watched as the molten earth turned into something reflective and beautifully dangerous, the sun causing little rainbows to refract through the glass. 

Its form turned from a singular, long unit to several, alchemical energy popping all around each reflective dagger. I saw myself in one. I looked away.

With a physical push of my body, I urged my weapon forward and around. Precision wasn’t my strong suit, but I had hoped that the sheer amount of glass I had created would hit its target-

A cry rang out, followed by a thud. I supposed that answered my question. Before I could feel any semblance of relief, there was another gunshot. It whipped right past the barrier, and it was from much farther away.

I cursed. “Sniper. We can’t risk getting much closer-”

“Calm down, Ayers,” Kimblee interrupted, almost annoyed. Briefly, he glanced at me, and the smile from before had been replaced with what could only be called a sneer. With a roll of his neck, he lowered his hand from his shoulder, still bleeding, and stared at the crimson stains over his fingers.

Then he leaned forward, tongue out, and licked it off. 

Of all the things I had seen in Ishval, that was one of the few things that made me genuinely sick to my stomach. I don’t even know why. It wasn’t even the action itself, but the fact that _Kimblee_ was the one who did it. He’d licked his lips afterward.

He was just as unbothered by the fact that our barricade began to crack with yet another bullet hitting its surface as he had been with his shoulder. If anything, he looked bored. He raised his clean hand and made a shooing gesture in my general direction. “Stand back.”

“This isn’t the time to be the self proclaimed hero,” I reprimanded. Kimblee scowled.

“Fine, then. Please, be my guest in haphazardly tossing glass around and hoping it hits someone. Unless you had any better ideas?”

“Don’t patronize me.” Sweat trickled down my knit brow, a droplet falling in my eye. It was quickly blinked away. “I didn’t expect them to have a sniper-”

“Always expect a sniper, Glass,” he interrupted yet again. Why he suddenly started using my title rather than my name was beyond me. Perhaps he thought the same way I did in terms of regarding his fellow soldiers. Respect had to be earned. 

And he, somehow, had lost mine.

Kimblee continued. “Step back or don’t. I’ll take care of this.”

He rolled his shoulders, and while I did in fact step back, I wasn’t going to do so quietly. “This isn’t a measuring contest, Kimblee.”

“I can say the same to you, Glass.”

What the man did next was bizarre. He held his arms out as his head tilted upwards towards the sky. A deep, long breath entered him, and he held it for some time, as if he was waiting for something.

Another shot rang out against the barricade. The sound of stone crumbling could be heard.

Kimblee exhaled, and his hands met. Immediately, he fell to the ground and pressed his palms against the sand. While my transmutation sparks tended to be a bright blue, his were blood red. And they were spreading everywhere.

First the barricade came down, crumbling back into sand. Before I could yell something at the man, however, an explosion rang out a few feet ahead. Then another, and another.

A young Ishvalan man lay crumpled in the sand about ten feet away from where we stood. A dagger of glass was pierced through his heart, blood upon his lips. 

The sound was deafening and then some. Red lightning seeped from Kimblee’s hands not unlike the blood from his present wound, though this was aggressive, fast, and violent. One would think that a desert wouldn’t have much to destroy when it came to explosions, but the alchemist before me would prove that assumption wrong.

Oxygen popped and cracked with every new explosion, the alchemical responses resembling a chain reaction across the desert sands. I watched as the first one hit a building at the outpost, crawling up its side like an insect looking for something to devour. 

And devour it did. Someone had been on the roof as the sandstone turned to rubble and dust, unable to find any sort of shelter. A figure fell to the ground, seeming to set off another controlled hit.

In picture books, the innards of the human body were always drawn very colorfully to appeal to children and garner their attention more easily to help them study. I remembered one I shared with my brothers for school when we were children. The heart was pink, the liver purple, and so on.

The organs that flew out and splattered across the rubble were the dullest, most lifeless colors I’d ever seen.

Kimblee was nowhere near finished, and I feared that my nausea was the same. Despite this, I couldn’t look away. More and more cracks of air and loud booms were heard further and further away, slamming against the buildings that still stood. Any screams in the distance were drowned out and immediately snuffed.

I didn’t want to do it, but my head found itself turning to look back at Kimblee. Though his back was to me for the most part, I could see it. His smile. It was wicked and cruel, his lips quivering as if fighting the urge to laugh.

When the last building fell to the ground, he did.

My ears rang as Kimblee stood upright and leaned backwards, releasing a cackle that rivalled the devil himself. His hands, trembling, moved to his head and gripped both sides, nails digging into the flesh. 

As the dust settled, his laughs ceased, hands falling back down to his sides. It was a wonder he was still standing upright with how far back his body was leaning. But then his head turned to me, grinning when I visibly flinched, and straightened his posture.

“You can’t hide behind a wall forever, Glass,” he suddenly said, tone uncomfortably cool. “You have to face the battlefield head on… That is, unless you want to be found dead in the middle of a desert before the war can even reach a conclusion.”

I don’t know what possessed me in that moment, and I’ll forever regret it. But I had scowled, thrown my arm out in the direction of the carnage, and snapped at him. “This isn’t a war, Kimblee; this is an extermination! And you’re happy to help with it! There isn’t a conclusion to this bloodshed until every single Ishvalan is dead and the Fuhrer is happy!”

While I had expected him to smile at my emotional reaction, he seemed a touch annoyed. “Oh, how perceptive. Yes, this war isn’t exactly the best, but what war is? You go into one willingly and you kill people. There’s nothing morally right about that. But it’s your _job._ You’re a _soldier_ , so maybe you should loosen up and find some way to enjoy it, because you don’t have any other options short of dying.”

“Just because I’m a soldier doesn’t mean I have to enjoy the deaths I cause!” I exclaimed. “Are you honestly telling me - anyone for that matter - that when I walk up to a dead child who will never see the sun rise ever again because of _my_ hand - “ I loathed that my voice faltered at that. “ - I should be _proud?_ ”

“Hating yourself over taking a human life isn’t worth the trouble,” Kimblee deadpanned. “So you might as well see it as an accomplishment. You’re skilled, Glass; you’ve simply been given the opportunity to put that skill to work for what it was meant for.”

“Alchemy was never meant for _this,_ ” I hissed between my teeth. “No matter how you frame it. Don’t you _dare_ act like it was.”

We had stared at each other for a good few seconds after that. Then Kimblee smiled, and I had never wanted to punch a man more. 

He turned and walked back towards the direction of camp. “Believe what you want to believe, Miss Ayers.”

I watched, my legs suddenly not wanting to hold themselves up. Kimblee walked off, hands in his pockets, and began to whistle. I had no choice but to follow behind him. It was the exact thing I’d wanted to avoid in the first place. Yet here I was, like a scolded puppy following its master with its tail between his legs.

Dog of the military indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

Seven years had passed, roughly. The war had ended and everyone went home, acting like it was normal. Like the soldiers were heroes returning from the battlefield when in reality they were celebrating blatant genocide.

The soldiers weren’t to blame, no. Of course they would be happy to come home. It was the higher ups in Central - that stone cold son of a bitch sitting on his throne in particular. I loathed King Bradley. To regard him as my country’s leader leaves a sour taste on my tongue. 

Breadcrumbs scattered over the plate before me as the knife slid through its freshly baked surface. The sound of eggs sizzling was the only noise in the room. It was peaceful, almost.

I’d turned my badge in as soon as I arrived in Central with the rest of the state alchemists. Oftentimes I wonder if some of them loathed that I didn’t say goodbye, but the opportunity wasn’t right. Hughes was already prancing off to find his wife in the crowd, Roy had looked beyond exhausted, and so on. I couldn’t focus on finding the people I wanted to say goodbye to because the military uniform was suffocating me and the badge in my pocket was so heavy that my legs struggled to move forward.

I’d thrown the badge across the bastard’s desk. He hadn’t so much as flinched. 

Bradley had asked me why I was doing such a thing, and I couldn’t answer. I only told him that I was giving up alchemy to spend time with my family in the aftermath of the war - a blatant lie. Something told me that he knew it was false. Even now, I believe that. But he let me go regardless.

I took all of the money in my military funds and told the cab driver to take me as far away from Central as possible. I found a nice house to lease from an elderly farmer who lived out of town. It had become my safe haven and my home.

… And it was lonely.

Not that I would ever admit such a thing. Humans are social creatures; of course we crave socialization. However, I always told myself that if an old friend wanted to see me again, they would just visit. Never mind the fact that I didn’t tell anyone where I was going or if I was even still in Amestris. My brain tends to conveniently ignore that fact.

The eggs were finished. I cut the heat and deposited them onto my plate, then moved to get butter for the bread. While I was at the fridge, I found myself glancing outside.

It was a beautiful day. The sun had since peeked through the clouds, becoming a welcome change from the rainfall the night previous. Dewdrops still lingered on the blades of grass outside, lightly swaying in the breeze. I couldn’t help but smile at the roses nestled in my windowsill, almost seeming to lean towards the sunlight with yearning. 

After placing the rest of the bread loaf in a plastic bag, I moved to give them a quick spritz of water. Hopefully that would help cheer them up.

Breakfast always tasted better when you made it yourself, I’d found. This could also be said for the food I made that morning, and it was taken care of relatively quickly. It was while I was busy washing the dishes that a knock was heard at my front door, startling me more than I’d like to admit.

Truth be told, I didn’t get many visitors. Occasionally the landlady visited for afternoon coffee, but other than the rare neighborly visit or the mailman, people didn’t visit me. For the briefest of moments, excitement sparked in my chest that it might be an old friend, and that someone had reached out to figure out where I was so that we could reconnect.

The thought was quickly snuffed out. No, getting my hopes up would do me no good. It was likely one of the rare door to door salesmen that stopped by every so often, trying to sell me something or other. 

With a sigh, I wiped my hands off on a nearby towel, ensuring they were dry, and walked over to the front door. It was mornings like these where I wished I’d had a peephole installed.

It was twenty seconds, I’d gathered. Twenty seconds of the unknown, blissful in its simplicity. I never realized how much I appreciated it until I opened that door.

At first, I didn’t recognize him. In honesty, I thought it was a salesman dressed a bit too sharply than salesmen tended to. But then he took off his hat and met my eye with a grin I had seen in my nightmares several times throughout the years.

Nausea grew in my stomach faster than I could register it. It took everything in me to remain calm, but I was older and hadn’t been on the battlefield in quite some time. The shock was evident on my face.

Solf J Kimblee was staring right at me.

“Good morning, Miss Ayers,” he greeted, as if we didn’t know each other in the slightest and as if he hadn’t caused sleepless nights in the middle of the desert seven years ago. “I won’t take up much of your time.”

“I could be wrong, but weren’t you in jail?” I shot back. My assertiveness surprised him, even if the only tell was that of his eyebrows raising ever so slightly. Kimblee hadn’t aged much, from what I could tell. His cheekbones were more pronounced, hair still tightly pulled back in a ponytail. The only thing about him that really changed was his fashion.

That said, it felt like a ghost was standing at my doorstep.

Kimblee’s posture straightened and he placed his hat back atop his head. “I was released due to good behavior. May I come in?”

“Why are you at my house?” I firmly asked, not budging from where I stood. “Come here to pester me, have you? Did you get out of prison and head directly here?”

His grin was odious and amused, like a cat watching its prey flop around before going in for the kill. “You’ve grown fiery, Miss Ayers. Though you don’t look like you’ve aged a day.”

“Answer my question, Kimblee.”

The man’s head listed, unconcerned. “I’m under orders from the Fuhrer to speak to you.”

The  _ Fuhrer? _

“Why?” I asked, incredulous. Kimblee looked bored.

“I could explain it if you’d let me in,” he replied. 

I nearly slammed the door in his face, but the thought of what he might do shook me to my core, rooting me in place. Logically, of course, I knew that he wouldn’t. But the possibility that he might loomed over me far too heavily to risk it.

Begrudgingly, I stepped to the side. His smile grew a bit more genuine, dipping his head in thanks as he walked through the doorway and into the kitchen. Having him in my house made the urge to strangle him grow a little more tempting.

I made sure to close the door harder than needed behind him. “Well then, explain,” I requested, folding my arms tightly over my chest. “Why would the Fuhrer of all people need me? You were in jail, so you likely didn’t hear, but I resigned years ago. I’m not eligible for drafting anymore.”

It’s not a draft,” Kimblee replied, perfectly content with the notion of sitting at my kitchen table and crossing his legs demurely beneath it, as if he belonged there. “He’s looking for any talented alchemists who would like to help him with-”

“I haven’t done alchemy in seven years,” I interrupted, deadpan. “Nor do I feel like helping our  _ beloved Fuhrer. _ ” The sarcasm in my tone was a little too obvious, but frankly, I was exhausted. He’d been in my house for less than five minutes and I already felt like I needed to take a nap. “So there’s your answer. Anything else?”

His lips pursed with amusement, not even bothering to hide his smile as his head turned upward to meet my eye. Everyone from Ishval had tired, guilty eyes. I once heard someone say you could read a person’s life story just by looking into their eyes. Soldiers were possibly the most open books one could find. But Kimblee’s were fiery and alert despite their half-lidded appearance. The blue of his irises was so brilliant that they almost appeared purple, and a dangerous, unseen flicker could be found in them if one looked hard enough.

“I suppose not.” But he didn’t stand up, instead glancing around the room and observing its interior. “Are you aware that there’s a serial killer on the loose? One that’s been targeting state alchemists.”

“I just explained that I resigned,” i flatly replied, but he acted as if I’d never spoke.

“His name is Scar,” he said a bit more loudly, as if I was hard of hearing. It made my hand tense, nails digging into the opposite arm. “And he is an Ishvalan. Part of the reason I came here was to make sure you hadn’t seen him. With you living so far out in the country, I figured there was no harm in asking.”

“I haven’t. I didn’t even know who he was until you told me just now.” I sighed shortly and leveled a glare at the man. “Kimblee, I’ve retired. I haven’t used alchemy since Ishval. I don’t want anything to do with whatever it is the Fuhrer’s planning, and frankly, him using you as his errand boy to pester me just feels like rubbing salt in my wounds. I’m going to say it again. Get out of my house.”

We maintained eye contact for some time. The longer he stared, the more my heart beat harshly against my chest. To say that I was on edge was an understatement. I was mentally keeping track of all of my exits and anything that could be used as a weapon, and the fast paced thinking was slowly giving me a headache.

Kimblee uncrossed his legs and stood up from the table. I stiffened and stepped aside from the door on instinct. For a moment, I thought he would actually leave without saying anything else. What an idiot I was.

He stalled just as he was about to pass by me. Head turning, he met my eye and raised a singular brow. “I’m curious, Miss Ayers. Just how accurate was I all those years ago? It’s been driving me mad, you see; not much to do in prison but think about the past.”

I knew what he was talking about, and he knew that I knew. Hopefully, he also knew that I wasn’t going to entertain him with an answer. And so I didn’t. I said nothing, instead leveling a glare at the man and waiting.

Kimblee scoffed, the sound turning into an eerie, slimy chuckle. “As I thought. Until we meet again.” 

“I pray to god that we never do,” I coldly replied. My eyes didn’t leave him until he had exited my house, walked down yard, and entered his cab. It wasn’t until the car was completely out of my sight that I released the breath I’d been holding.

My legs gave out beneath me before I could catch them. The hardwood floor was hell on my knees when they made contact, but nothing could compare to the rapidly growing pain in my chest. Tears had since budded in my eyes. My fist made contact with my knee, but the impact was weak. I was weak. _I_ _was weak_.

Tears fell faster than I could blink them away. Sobs erupted from me as if they had been lying dormant for years. I would say that they had, had it not been for the countless times I’d awoken in a cold sweat because of a nightmare, crying and sobbing so heavily that my pillow would grow damp.

There was no pillow here - no comfort in the fact that my fears were squarely set in the realm of imagination and fiction. I didn’t know  _ why _ the man scared me so much.

No, that was a lie.

Ishval scared me. Death scared me. Kimblee scared me. I was scared of his horrifying cackle when he slaughtered a block of Ishvalan mothers and children. I was scared of the way he looked at people like they were prey. I was scared of his unpredictability and the fact that he was winning at that very moment. He had gotten under my skin, which was exactly what he wanted.

“Fuck.” I sucked down a sob and ran my hand over my eyes to try and mop up my tears, but it was to no avail. Again I cursed, bracing myself against the floor. My entire body shook, my vision blurred from the tears, and no less than three more expletives left my mouth before I gave up and wailed.

My arms gave out, and I crumpled to the floor. Even after everything, after all of my trauma, my hardship, and the weight of my sins, the universe was determined against giving me a break. I did everything in my power to become a better person, and yet my literal nightmares still show up at my front door, a smile on their face all the while.

Maybe this was some sort of divine punishment. Somewhere, above or below, a god was laughing at me. Nothing I ever did would erase my sins, and I knew it.

Sniffing, I held my head up as best as I could and stared out at my front yard. The dew had since evaporated from the grass, and the breeze had stopped. 

I couldn’t let this take over. I had since grown tired of throwing my own pity parties, and I needed to move through these fears and panics. But for the moment, all I could do was cry. Maybe it wasn’t a bad thing. It had been over a decade since I allowed myself to cry. 

I had a lot of catching up to do.


End file.
